


Safe and Sound?

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:18:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6540664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: shoot prompt: Shaw just came back to team machine and Root kind of walks on ice around her. One night Shaw tells her she doesn't have to and Root just walks away quietly, but Shaw stops her and gives her a little hug like she did to Gen in that one episode. When Shaw pulls back, Root smiles and says "Goodnight, Sameen" that night when Shaw finally makes it home, she finds Root sleeping soundly in her bed and she smiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe and Sound?

“What’s our number?” Sameen Shaw asks, leaning in over Harold’s desk, smiling kindly although her eyes are cold and stern. Peering up at her, Finch’s lips press together tight, eyes filling with sympathy as he sighs.

“I’m sorry, Miss Shaw,” Harold informs her softly, “but with your current condition, I don’t think it’s best that you-”

“I’m fine,” Shaw interrupts sourly. _My current condition_ , she mutters to herself spitefully. She knows she’s not like she used to be. With the hollows in her cheeks deeper than before, and the dark stains under her eyes revealing all the sleepless nights she’d never voice, Shaw had been strapped down and tortured for months. _For over a year_. Physical pain was bad, but not terrible- she got a kick out of taking it with a smile, egging on her captures to do it again _. I dare ya._ The psychological side, that was worse. Flashbacks would hit her like bowling balls, rendering her useless for stretches of time unknown, black outs plaguing her at the worst times. But it’s been over a week, and she’s too antsy to sit around anymore, left with too much time on her hands to think. She’s tired of being stowed behind the curtains, the call to action chanting temptingly in her ear. “You can’t keep me cooped up in this underground Hell forever, Harold.”

Harold’s eyes plead with her, telling her it’s not him that’s choosing this. _If not him, then who?_

* * *

 

Just then, the sharp click of high heels echoes into the subway station, and Harold’s eyes flicker to a point behind Shaw. Turning, Shaw finds Root approaching, grin illuminating her face and brown eyes alive. Then, at seeing Shaw, they dampen with pain, smile faltering for half a second. Clearing her throat, Root comes close to Shaw, and Shaw holds her breath, waiting. She waits for Root to put her hands on Shaw’s shoulders, black-nailed fingers pushing into Shaw’s skin as she puts her face close to Shaw’s, a low ‘hey, Sweetie’ cooed into Shaw’s ear. Instead, Root side steps away, focus fully enveloped in Finch.

Shaw rolls her tongue over her teeth in agitation. _Good_ , Shaw thinks bitterly. _I would have to kill her if she did that anyway._ But she doesn’t mean it- knows she doesn’t mean it, and that it’s the farthest thing from the truth.

“Where’s the big lug?” Root asks, eyes flickering past Harold and to the subway car.

“He was called out with Detective Fusco,” Harold informs her. Root presses her lips together.

“He was supposed to help with the number,” Root reminds him with an irritated sigh. “It’s a _two_ person job.”

“Then let’s go.”

Every white noise drops into uneasy silence, Root and Finch sharing a conversation with their unsteady eyes. Harold’s ponderance, Root’s warning, Harold’s questioning, Root’s upset sternness. Shaw peers between them, folding her arms in impatience.

“I, uh, don’t think that’s the best idea, Sweetie,” Root answers in a soft, apologetic voice. Sweetie- she hadn’t used it since Shaw’d gotten back. And by the flash of surprise followed with a pin prick of pain in Root’s eyes, it was a slip.

“Why not?” Shaw retorts, turning to face Root, teeth grinding and jaw set. Root’s eyes widen the slightest bit, almost as if asking Shaw to let it go. She won’t.

“Harold, would you mind assisting me?” Root asks, dragging her eyes away from Shaw.

“ _Him?_ ” Shaw spits indignantly, not giving him any time to respond. “He doesn’t even use a _gun_. He’s not going to be _any_ help.” From the corner of her eye, Shaw can see Harold’s cross glare boring into her, but she ignores it.

“It won’t take much effort to-”

“Great, it’ll be the perfect opportunity to ease me back into the field,” Shaw interrupts, and Root’s lips hang agape with the words still clinging to her tongue. “So. Let’s. _Go_.”

“Shaw, _please_.” Root says, eyes swirling with stern conviction and a weak beg. “It would be better for you to stay put and heal.” Then, to Harold, she adds, “I’ll go alone. Tell John to meet me there when he gets the chance.” She begins to push away from the desk; however, Shaw grabs her wrist, pinning her back against the desk, with murder burning in her eyes. Pushing herself close to Root, Shaw brings her face only inches from Root’s, Root unable to breathe.

“I eat here, I sleep here, I waste _all_ of my _time_ here,” Shaw growls in a threateningly low tone, teeth bared. “Like _hell_ if you think you can keep me _trapped_ here forever.” _The cramped tightness of being stuck underground is suffocating, the lack of outside noise and the sun on my skin making it feel as if I’d never left imprisonment at all_ , she wants to add, but decides against it.

“Sam,” Root says in a hushed voice, and Shaw can feel her pulse sputtering from the tight grip she keeps on Root’s wrist. “We’re just trying to protect you,” she insists, trying to push past Shaw.

“I don’t _need_ protecting,” Shaw hisses, tightening her grip. With her free hand, Shaw reaches into Root’s jacket pocket, her eyes daring Root to challenge her, as she slips out the set of keys that rest there. Giving them a gratifying jingle in front of Root’s eyes, Shaw finally releases the tall brunette, stepping back. “I’m driving,” she tells Root, not waiting to hear an argument before heading for the exit, more excited than she’s willing to admit to step back into the real world.

_____\ If Your Number’s Up /_____

Streaks of red and orange snake like ribbons up Shaw’s arms and over her face as she drives into the sunset, hum of the motor and buzz of the other vehicles surging around her pumping a new flush of life into her cheeks. It felt like centuries since Shaw had been this free. Stepping down harder onto the gas, they speed forward, Shaw traveling in and out of lanes with the thrill of a child. Peering Root’s way, Shaw finds Root watching her, a small smile sitting on her lips as her brown eyes catch fire in the red sunlight. It sends a tingle running down Shaw’s spine as a cage full of butterflies bursts open in her stomach.

“You gonna _say_ something or just _stare_ a little longer?” Shaw asks her, too invigorated by being outdoors to put up an irritated front. Root blinks swiftly, turning her face away with paling cheeks. Shaw gives an internal groan, absolutely hating how guarded Root has been acting. Root, the hacker that has no idea what the phrase ‘personal space’ means keeping a ruthless distance between them. Rolling her eyes, Shaw forces her mind back to the road, to the wonders of seeing Manhattan again; however, it’s grandeur has somehow dimmed.

“Make a right up here,” Root tells her, voice all business no pleasure, and Shaw complies, bringing them onto a small side street jammed with parked cars on both sides.

“So what’s the plan?” Shaw asks, eager and itching to excersize her trigger finger.

“Go in, find the kidnapped kid, and get out before the dealers notice.” Shaw nods, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter with excitement. Nearing the end of the block, Root says “This is it.” Pulling into an available space on the opposite side of the street, Shaw studies the ancient home on the corner, black wrought iron fence peeking up three feet from the ground with a long stretch of dying grass leading towards the rickety front porch. Two men sit on chairs on either side of the door, and- upon closer inspection- both are packing heat. The only house not a row home, it sticks out enough without also being the center of a notorious cocaine front. Yet, with the rotting shutters closed and the red paint faded and peeling, it looks about as harmful as a ladybug.

“Stay in the car,” Root instructs, flicking the safety off her gun. “Be ready to leave as soon as he’s in the car.”

“No,” Shaw counters stubbornly, pulling the keys from the transmission. “There’s no chance I’m going to sit _here_ while you get to go kamikaze in _there_.” Root tilts her head to the side sympathetically, all the while her eyes swirl with annoyance.

“Trust me,” Root insists.

“Trust you to get yourself killed? No thanks.” With that, Shaw steps from the car and begins to cross the street. Root, vexation mixing with worry, follows after her quickly. As Root and Shaw step through the gate, the two burly men stand, tugging their shirts a little higher to show their weapons.

“Get out,” the one snarls, green eyes icy. Shaw doesn’t even stop, scaling the porch steps as she eases her firearm from her waistband, cool smirk on her face as her gaze flickers between the two. Waiting for one of them to strike, to begin a quick draw they will be unable to win.

Two soft bursts of air whistle out, and the men drop, groaning. Whirling around, Shaw finds Root- a silenced gun in each hand- and sneers. She opens her mouth to protest when Root stows her weapons and steps onto the porch with two cloths and a small glass vile in tow. Dabbing the clear liquid onto a cloth, Root hands one to her. By the smell that wafts up, Shaw knows what to do, and presses it over the first man’s face. His green eyes scream with agony as she pushes it down, then slowly fade into clouded thoughts, and nothing. Standing, Shaw feels a presence at her back and stiffens microscopically, hearing carefully placed heel steps creeping closer, arm outstretching-

Shaw latches onto Root’s arm fiercely, causing her to suck in a pained breath. Shaw tightens her fist, nails digging deep into Root’s light jacket and down to the skin, seeing red. She waits, eyes never leaving Root’s captured hand, as she slowly releases her grip on the cloth- the cloth she was about to use to subdue Shaw.

Once it finally flutters to the ground, Shaw releases her grip, wheeling around with fury in her breath and accusation in her eyes.

“Don’t even _think_ about it,” Shaw snarls threateningly, yet Root doesn’t seem afraid. She appears upset- deflated. Rolling her eyes, Shaw steps away from Root, focus back on the front door. _I can take care of myself,_ she mutters internally.

Picking the aged lock and slipping inside, Shaw is thrown by the smell of sweat and beer and narcotics. Giving Root a quick glance, she nods, and they begin to check the rooms, guns at the ready.

Sounds bubble up from the kitchen, men talking and swearing and laughing as they undoubtedly dream of their upcoming fortune. Snaking through the shadows, Root comes to another door, and on a silent count of three, yanks it open. Shaw snaps around the doorframe, eyes scanning the dark with gun poised as she stares into the cellar. A chilling draft slithers into Shaw’s bones, but she shakes it away, taking silent steps down the bowing staircase. Someone coughs, and she crouches, peering around the stair case’s thin wall to see a boy of no more than sixteen bound to a chair, blindfold on his eyes and gag in his mouth.

The number. Stowing her gun quickly, Shaw darts over to him, beginning to undo the knotted ropes.

“Don’t speak, don’t scream, don’t run,” Shaw instructs in a calm but authoritative manner. “We’re gonna get you out of here.” As soon as the rag leaves his mouth, the boy sucks in a large breath, eyes watering with relief.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, “thank you, thank-” he stops, eyes gone wide with a countenance contorted in terror. Turning, gun snapping out, Shaw finds horror staring her in the face.

A man with muscles the size of freight trains and a permanent scowl has one meaty arm wrapped around Root’s collar, glinting needle at her neck.

“Who are you,” he barks, and despite her overwhelming urge to charge him- to shoot him, to do anything to him that will get Root safe now- she remains cool.

“Concerned third party,” she responds, winning a small smile from Root. Then, the needle pierces skin, and Root winces; Shaw takes aim. The man’s thumb’s on the plunger, twitching and ready to pump her full of whatever it holds.

“Don’t mess with _me_ , hun,” he growls, brown eyes narrowing to slits. “I got enough flash in here to kill your little girlfriend in under a minute.” Shaw’s jaw sets, the pressure of the situation setting in. Then, her vision rattles, all things going black. Memories of syringes pierce her skin, flooding her eyes with photo after photo of white lab coats and excruciating tests with mystery drugs. She can feel it, she can feel the hum of the black out as it grows louder and louder, wrapping her in cotton and dragging her to the bottom of the sea. _Focus_ , she demands. _Focus_. But everything is a blur.

“What do you want,” Shaw mutters, the pain creasing her skull making her forget to add menace to the words.

“I want _you_ to put that gun down, plop that boy _back_ in his seat, and get the Hell _out_ of my cellar,” he commands forcefully. “Otherwise, she’s getting a lethal injection.”

“You so much as twitch a finger and I’ll have a bullet between your eyes,” Shaw snaps at him, the migraine in her head making it nearly impossible to see. Visions of leather straps and IV’s and beeping monitors take her over, grabbing at her with sharp-taloned claws as they try to pull her back into the darkness. _Focus_ , Shaw commands. _Don’t you dare lose focus._ Her vision muddies into doubles, two assailants, two roots, to needles, but only one gun. _Shit, shit, shit._

“I’d like to see a pretty thing like you try,” the man responds, oily smile festering on his face. Root’s hands grab at the arm still planted firmly around her neck, trying to pry him off enough to suck in a full gulp of air. Narrowing her eyes, Shaw pushes against the black out, forcing it out of her mind with the will of an exorcism, blinking her vision back to normal.

_'POP!’_

With a guttural grunt, the man collapses like a flour sack to the cellar floor. With a gulp of air, Root yanks the needle from her neck, eyes crinkled in pain as she drains the contents onto the floor before tossing the syringe to a darkened corner. Root casts her eyes Shaw’s way, surprise in them followed swiftly by gratitude. Feeling- _maybe a little-_ pompous, Shaw smirks.

“ _Still_ think I should have waited in the car?”

_____\ We’ll Find You /_____

Pulling up before Root’s apartment building, Shaw peers up at its nearly endless tiers. A thousand small rectangles scaling every side, some glowing yellow and others as dark as the night. It takes Shaw no time to pick Root’s apartment out of the crowd. Four floors up, third from the left. It feels like lifetimes have passed since the last time Shaw had been in Root’s apartment- in Root’s room.

Shaw’s mind flickers to her first few nights back. She’d been sleeping on the cot set up for her when her cover identity was first unveiled. Shaw remembers laying there with the lights all out, the room dark as death, as she stared up at a ceiling she could not see. She’d heard breathing, and knew Root hadn’t gone home again. No, rather, Root would sit in Harold’s chair, keeping her distance with eyes that never left Shaw. It was as if Shaw was a house of cards, and even too large of an exhale in Shaw’s direction would make her crumble. Shaw would lay there, sometimes holding her breath, just listening to Root, wondering if she was asleep- if either of them ever slept anymore. Just like Shaw, light purple rings sat firmly under Root’s eyes, refusing to go away. Finally, on day four, Harold guided Root by the arm from the station, leaving Shaw utterly alone. Nights became worse after that.

Turning to Root, Shaw sees her lips part as if to speak, but- instead- Root presses them back together tightly and steps from the car. After a moment, Shaw scampers out after her, slamming the car door loud enough to make Root stop. Root stands as a statue as Shaw rounds the car, coming to stand before her with hands on her hips. Root begins to smile, thinks better of it, and swallows the grin back down, averting her eyes as her cheeks begin to flush.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Shaw tells her, the words like paste on her tongue. She needs to get this out, but she knows better than anyone how hard talking can be.

Bringing her gaze back to Shaw, Root raises a brow but says nothing, waiting for Shaw to elaborate.

“Walk on ice around me,” Shaw continues. “It’s not necessary. I can handle the job; I can handle myself; I…” She trails off. _I can handle you._ In the moonlight, Root’s eyes grow wet, and she licks her lips before beginning to walk away. No, Shaw thinks to herself, no, don’t just let her walk away.

Sticking out her hand, Shaw grabs Root lightly by the forearm. Root, surprised, snaps her eyes back to Shaw curiously, dark hair fanning out around her pale face. Shaw, giving her one last- unnecessary- chance to change her mind, pulls Root in towards her, bringing Root close to her before wrapping her free arm around Root’s back shortly, then lets go. Root barely registers the hug until it’s over and Shaw’s hands are tucked into her pockets, eyes looking elsewhere.

Smiling, Root appears to, again, have something on her mind that she forces to the back burner. Looking Shaw over, she shakes her head lightly.

“Goodnight, Sameen,” she says softly, then starts off again. Shaw, not waiting to see if Root makes it into the foyer or not, hops back in the SUV and drives. Parking it a few blocks from the subway, she begins to walk, mind reeling. _What was on Root’s mind? Does she believe me? Do I believe me?_

She makes it to the corner before the station and slows, legs protesting more and more with each step to move forward. She doesn’t- can’t- will her legs to move, and soon enough, they stop, leaving her feet from the entrance. She’s like a wild animal set free now willingly returning to a depressing cage. Or, almost willingly. Because, the more she thinks about it, the less she wants to return to that cot on the floor. Spinning around, Shaw stalks in the direction of her apartment building, deciding that if Harold becomes concerned enough of her whereabouts, he’ll call. It only takes her a minute to maneuver up and down alleys and sidewalks before coming upon the building. They’d told her they kept the place for her- that she’d be able to go back to it once they were certain she was safe. Well, Samaritan hasn’t come back for me yet, she tells herself, walking in.

Taking the creaky, aged elevator, Shaw trails her eyes over every dent in the metal and stain on the carpet, never thinking she’d actually miss the shabby abode. Stepping into the hallway, Shaw stretches her fingers out to the wall, dragging them along the horrible green wallpaper with a newfound appreciation, the ancient lights hanging hap-hazardously above her as cozy as her bed.

Her own bed. The idea of it sends a smile climbing Shaw’s face, and she quickens her strides, coming to the old wooden door with a copper 58 nailed to the front. Picking the lock quickly, she pushes open the door, the darkness of her apartment swallowing her whole. The smell of her old things engulfs her, sending her back to a place before the stock exchange. But there’s something different, something like the fragrance of dust and time, telling her things will never be as they were. Closing the door quietly, Shaw kicks off her shoes in the dark and strips of her jacket. Then, she hears it.

Breathing.

Soft and slow and familiar, Shaw creeps towards it, padding silently down the small hall before coming to the open expanse of her flat. Moonlight spills in through the windows, throwing pale light over the dresser, refrigerator, and bed. And there, tucked under crumpled blankets, is a familiar figure with brown, curly hair. Shaw stands still a moment, watching her. With the larger question of why didn’t she just stay at her own apartment, Shaw accepts Root’s placement for the night and smiles.

A million playfully snide comments slide into Shaw’s mind as she approaches, but she decides to voice none, watching Root’s face in peace as she sleeps. Slowly easing herself under the covers, Shaw wonders what it will be like in the morning- granted, it wouldn’t be the first time Root had woken up to see Shaw next to her, not to mention it’s Shaw’s apartment in the first place. Still, with fatigue washing over her, Shaw decides it is a bridge to cross when she gets there, and settles in, eyes scanning Root’s face. Soon, her eyelids droop, Root becoming a dark blur as the night claims Shaw, and she drifts into the best sleep she’s had in over a year.


End file.
